sooner surrender (watch the last walls collapse)
by electricsymphony
Summary: Veronica Lodge muses on her pre-Riverdale life, the morals and ideals (or lack thereof) that defined it, and everything that changed thereafter. Betty seems to show up a lot. OR, four topics of importance in V's life that she finds far less interesting than Betty Cooper. Primarily a character study. Excessive language.


**Notes** : I was mercilessly and impressively manipulated like a fiddle by parisoriginal as she (correctly) deduced that I'd have boatloads of Veronica Lodge feelings if she managed to get me writing for this fandom.

As you can see, she succeeded.

Please enjoy this character study of angst soup and ... well that's pretty much what this is full stop. It won't get fluffy at any point, but it will end on a far more uplifting note than this chapter indicates. This is the 1st part of 5.

Also for fromthechaos, cause you didn't stop this madness, you just fed it further. ;)

Enjoy. 3

 **Disclaimer** : 'Riverdale, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to all those involved in the Archie Comic Publications, Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, The CW and their affiliates. The title originates from the song 'Sooner Surrender' and belongs to Matt Nathanson, 2007 Vanguard Records and their affiliates. I own nothing detailed in this story and make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.'

* * *

Veronica Lodge first heard the word from her mother's mouth, turned upwards in a hard, cruel curve that both intrigued and frightened the four year old, draped in pearls and privilege and women's perfume. It dripped from her mother's lips, slick and definite, lips red and haughty and wicked — "You're a legacy, darling; a modern-day royal."

Her gestulication was wild, her eyes bright and sharp, a conviction so lethal it reeked the air like poison. ( _Drunk_ , little Veronica would later know as she aged, as she realized, as she understood, as she _burned_.)

"This world, these _people_ — this city, a kingdom fit for a princess. Fit for _you_. For a _Lodge_."

Veronica was naught but a bright-eyed, exuberant, spoiled little girl whose heart (and ego) swelled at the idea of being a princess. She had no idea what the other words meant, not really.

Veronica first heard a secondary definition of the word from the mouth of her primary school Headmistress, an old woman with a deceptively sweet disposition, a thousand dollar pantsuit and that same flowery, familiar, comforting aroma of women's perfume — (that same putrid, suffocating, _telling_ stench of privilege and posturing).

"Your record is immaculate, Ms. Lodge, but what really matters here — what really matters _out_ _there_ — is your legacy. Your father attended this institution, thrived and built this institution, some would say, and I'm sure you'll be proud to call it your own."

She was proud to be a part of anything her father created; he was a genius, and she could only dream to live up to his legacy. If it was his attendance to this school that gave her that in, that allowed her to strive in his pristine, brilliant footsteps, she would take it. And she would take it with a smile. A smile she would very soon come to realize had the capacity to give her whatever she wanted, whatever she needed.

She _needed_ success. Power. Resources. Control.

Looking back, the only thing she wishes she would have known was how risky it was to conflate what she needed with what she _wanted_.

Veronica Lodge didn't realize what she wanted until she'd lost everything she needed.

(But Veronica Lodge isn't there yet; she can't go back, can't turn back, can't dream up dramatic and powerful time-travel sequences the likes of stories far beyond her breadth, beyond her worth, beyond her skill — she's not Bellamy, she's not H.G. Wells, and god only knows she's not Marty McFly. As much as she wants — needs? — to rewrite her story, to undo the dues unpaid, to never allow the festering seeds of her willful blinders, her self-obsessions, her intrinsic dismissal of people irrelevant to her 'success', she cannot. Primarily because she's just as mediocre of a writer as she is of a person.)

Veronica first reveled in the intoxicating power of her legacy on a middle school playground, a cruel smirk on her face to match — to beat — the dirt and blood matted into a little blonde girl's hair, the lightly dusted (immaculately perfect) purple hue of her lips a deadly match — a triumphant win, a twisted mirror — of the bruise swelling across her pretty, pink face.

(Pink was a weak color. Betty Cooper was not a weak person. Needless to say, Veronica Lodge did not agree with Alice Cooper's assessment — pink was the last color she'd associate with her blonde smokeshow; the only pink she'd ever enjoyed, albeit a bit guilty in its pleasure, starred an equally unfit for pink smokeshow named Molly Ringwald.)

Veronica first learned the implications of said legacy on a rainy, overcast Sunday cheerleading practice — "For fuck's sake, Amy, do you want to get to semi? Jesus — you'd think I was the only one to give a shit. And get off the goddamn ground. If you slip in a little puddle water, are you going to slip off your formation? God knows no one likes Heather either, but if you're going to make her fall and break a rib, it better be on your own time _after_ we win." — catered by the most expensive and renowned bakery in all of Manhattan.

All it took was falsely sweet smiles, critiques and criticisms delivered on tones of sugary sweetness and the sweetest, most succulent cupcakes American cuisine had to offer and Veronica Lodge realized she could say anything and fix it with a fake smile, a deceptive tone and a delicious cupcake.

 _Anything_.

It was a very important staple in the Veronica Lodge playbook, one her mother drilled into her from an early age.

("There's nothing a little sweetness can't fix. Even if it's synthetic.")

(The first time Veronica Lodge meant it — the first time it wasn't synthetic, the first time _she_ wasn't synthetic, she was standing in the reception office of a shabby, run-down school in Riverdale that smelled of mediocrity, negligent cleaning schedules, comfort and salvation, staring into the piercing green eyes of Betty Cooper, seeing little else but Heather Marrow, face bruised, blonde hair colored strawberry with blood and humiliation, but then Betty smiled — an unassuming, sweet (a natural sweet, like citrus or orange, one that can both quench a thirst and sting with a kick, sometimes in the same breath) half-quirked thing, genuine and radiant and _real_ and then all Veronica saw henceforth was Betty. In more ways than one.)

(The first time she handed someone a cupcake without an ulterior motive, without any synthetic sugar, it was Betty Cooper. Which is apt, she knows, because nearly all of her firsts that didn't come from a playbook were invoked by Betty Cooper.)

Veronica first learned the emptiness — the fickle nature, the damned curse — of her legacy on a blindingly sunny Monday, a monstrous hangover to go with her Double Whipped Hazelnut Macchiato (god fucking bless her legacy and its gorgeous perks, impeccable metabolism et al.) when she was called to the Headmistress' office, the rest of the student body silenced by her nearly patented withering stare.

That silence lasted all of about three minutes before the nature of the summons got around.

Fickle. Fickle friends, fickle legacy, fickle _life_.

Their own little Stepford Wife bubble of riches of delusion, just with steak knives instead of butter knives, with iron gates instead of picket fences, with fake words sharpened more routinely and more diligently than their suburban family Cutcos.

She starts to think her world is nothing more than a reboot of the Stepford Wives directed by Tim Burton and written by the Koch Brothers, Machiavellian Scholars and the Planning Committee for the Met Gala.

(The first time she hears someone refer to the Cooper family as 'Stepford', the only reason she doesn't punch them square in the face is because she doesn't want Betty associated with the trouble. She threatens their life something good, though, and smashes a vase as soon as she gets home.)

She _knows_ her life is nothing more than that with certainty as soon as she checks her twitter feed — friends, fickle friends, writing heinous lies — horrifying truths — about her, one after another, hurling through screens, past high ceilings and broken windows into her expansive, ostentatious parlour room like grenades — into her soul, her regret, into whatever tiny piece was left of wide-eyed four year old that really only wanted to be a princess, and didn't understand or care about a lick of the rest of it.

When her family life crushed to ash, fell in shambles, lit on fire, no one came. No one stayed.

They all donned the security, anonymity and vengeful glee afforded to them by the other side of a twitter feed.

(When her twitter feed attacks once more, when she feels herself sink back to 'Basic Bitch Lodge', Betty Cooper, the B to her V, holds on tight, pulls her back up, sheds her perfect good girl self who had nothing to lose, immerses herself amidst full darkness, no stars to help the girl who deserves everything she's lost, donning a black wig and righteous anger, taints and smears of red and black into her light, into her pastels, and does it all - loses it all - for _Veronica fucking Lodge._

She's angry, so unbelievably angry at herself for allowing — for _pushing_ — Betty down to her level.

It doesn't really help when she finds out that Betty didn't need the push, didn't lose anything, she was already there. She'd already been there.

It just turns the anger into despair, the self-hate into worry.

She loves Betty Cooper.

In that moment, watching her sacrifice everything she ( _seemingly_ ) is for someone so undeserving, she knows she loves her.

Thing is, she doesn't entirely realize in what manner she loves her until far later.)

The first time she realizes — stunned, relieved and utterly fucking terrified - that her legacy is in the past, that it doesn't define her any longer, that she's not _Veronica fucking Lodge_ , she's just _V_ , her girlfriend holds her tight in strong, reliable arms, her golden blonde hair a halo around her shaking shoulders while she cries. Cries because _V_ is allowed to cry.

Because _Veronica Lodge_ never was.

Because a Lodge didn't cry. About anything.

It had no place in living their legacy.


End file.
